Weather
by bespectacledfanwarrior
Summary: Malik liked the rain.


**A/N: Hi so this is the first thing I've written in a good long while because I kind of lost my confidence but I love Malik's character and when the idea came I knew had to write it. Expect more from me in the AC fandom in future now that I'm back. Enjoy :) **

Weather

Malik liked the rain.

He liked the smell that lingered in the air hours before, the scent of nature cutting through the thick mask of incense and spices and sweat to reclaim the land. He liked the ferocity of the gale that ripped through the buildings and swept his body, his soul, back to a time when he had been able to transcend the forces of nature, his limbs transforming him into a shadow, running, leaping, climbing, up beyond the reach of Man to the home of untamed wilderness, of stars and sunlight, of eagles. Rain was a memory, but more than that…rain was an opportunity.

Everything paused before a storm. The whole city, synchronously alerted by some ancient instinct, sensed a change on the wind and abandoned their daily activities in favour of shelter. Jerusalem fell silent. Normally Malik wouldn't risk venturing too far out of the Bureau, not while his strength and speed diminished but the number of enemies seeking his blood did not. Tonight, though, the streets were lonely without the usual bustle of everyday life and the guards had sought shelter in buildings and under ledges, freeing the rooftops.

So Malik climbed. Higher and higher, his one hand barely catching the tiny almost invisible notches, he ascended one of the tallest buildings in Jerusalem. He was so close to falling so many times but the danger only made it sweeter. To feel the pounding blood just under the surface of his skin, his breath sharp in his lungs, the painful scrape of sandstone on his bare palm, the wind's frenzied embrace…it was worth the risk.

At last he reached the flat roof of the guardhouse. The two archers barely had time to notice him leaping over the wall, swift and deadly, before his knives found their throats. Their eyes widened as they wasted their last few seconds on shock and then they crumpled. Blood blossomed under their bodies and crept into cracks in the stonework. Malik took a moment to retrieve his knives and carefully clean the blades before placing them back in his belt. Cripple of not, he was an Assassin.

He looked away from them then and turned his gaze to the sky.

Heavy purple clouds glared down on his tiny form and suddenly nature became so very powerful, a forgotten threat. What use was there for swords and arrows and knives when the heavens could roar with a cry louder than all the voices of Man? In the absence of the relentless flurry of life and chaos and joy and pain, nature rose again. Its energy built, coiling tighter and tighter, until the wind thickened and the hairs rose on his neck. Then the first drop fell.

Malik closed his eyes.

Day after day he had to face the humiliation of barely being able to tie his own laces. Yes, the wound itself hurt, but the black fabric of those Dai robes hurt more. He couldn't even hide his face to cover the shame. He had to stand there, a doormat, watching the eagles fly by, and each feather he gave felt as though he had plucked it from his own wings.

His maps were stained in places and careful blotting couldn't quite mask the shadow of the spilled ink, nor could he completely hide the blurred circles from the tears that had followed. He'd thrown them to the fire.

He forced himself to suffer in dignified silence, whether it was pride or acceptance he didn't know, and with each passing hour he felt as though he was being pushed a little closer to the limit of what he could take. Every time he watched a novice's eyes drift towards his stump of an arm with _that look _it burned just a little more. Every time the shadow of what he had been rose to meet the day before his body caught up reminded him of the vacuum of space where his life's potential no longer existed…he couldn't do it any more.

It would be so intoxicatingly easy to cast himself over the edge and fall with the rain. He didn't fear death. Does death even have any power over an existence without life?

The storm was picking up pace.

He stood, face naked, arms turned upwards, and breathed. The rhythmic sheets of rain battered his skin and the numbing fingers of cold soaked through his clothes until he felt as though he had given himself entirely over to the storm. His heartbeat mingled with the pounding rain. The water poured down his face like tears and fell to the floor to be forgotten.

Every piece of him that made him Malik the cripple was dripping away like blood. The grief, the humiliation, the anger…all gone, his identity washed away in the wind.

It would return, of course, with the slow grind of reality, the cleansing only lasted so long. But even at the very end of all hope, as he looked inwards and saw the precipice looming under him, he found he could not give in. He had been wrong, he'd thought there had been nothing but the void, but he realised now that there was something there. It was small, barely more than a single flame, but strong, stronger than he thought he could be. It was defiance.

The world had pushed him to the very edge and it had never expected him to fight back, never even considered it. Malik laughed. He actually laughed. He had a purpose after all - even if it was just to turn his entire life into a massive _fuck you. _

He looked down from the watchtower and spotted a pile of hay at the bottom. It would be soaked through by now but it was fairly large, maybe it would suffice. Maybe.

He took one last lingering look over the rooftops of Jerusalem before throwing himself over the edge, his form perfect even with one less arm.

Tonight his soul wore white.


End file.
